


Great escape

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, High School, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: When Peter feels unwell at school, just getting out of there is his only goal.





	Great escape

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt for Tumblr (find me @Builder051).

Hello!  Thanks for the request.  I think Peter and May’s interactions can be really sweet, so that’s the main driver behind this one.  Due to lack of plot, this one will be fairly short…Ok, 1.2K words.  Maybe not that short.

 

_____

 

Peter’s head is aching.  It’s nearly to the point of blurring his vision.  He’s freezing.  It’s gotten so bad that he’s wearing his academic decathlon jacket. Willingly wearing the mustard-colored monstrosity.  Over his hoodie.  Which isn’t a good look.

 

Ned gave one glance at him shivering through second period and told him to go to the nurse.  Peter’d stated he was fine.  It’s now third period, and Peter’s starting to wish he’d heeded the advice.  He’s having trouble concentrating.  And with all the gunk in his sinuses settling into his nasal passages, breathing’s getting a little iffy too. 

 

Peter scans the science classroom for a box of Kleenex, but there are none to be found.  He abandons plan A of blowing his nose like a normal person and moves onto plan B of smearing the cuff of his yellow blazer with snot while also snuffing loudly and swallowing a glob of disgustingness that doesn’t feel welcome in his sore throat.  Great, just great. 

 

Ms. Warren sets everybody loose to start the experiment, and Peter realizes he hasn’t taken in a word of the instructions.  In his current state of fuzziness, he doesn’t think he’s in the best condition to be responsible for a Bunsen burner.  Plus, the ball of mucous that’s just splashed into his stomach is bringing on a feeling that what’s coming next isn’t going to be all that pleasant.  He needs to get out of here.

 

Peter raises his hand.  “Hey, Ms. Warren, can I go to the bathroom?”  Only it comes out all raspy, like he’s a chain-smoking old man.

 

“Would you rather go to the nurse?” Warren asks him, stepping over to Peter’s lab bench and looking him over.

 

He’s fine.  He’s supposed to be ok.  Or at least pretending he is.  “Uh, naw, I just…”  His mouth’s feeling excessively spitty.

 

“Yeah, go,” the teacher says.  “If you throw up, I’ll write you a nurse’s pass.”

 

Really?  Is he that transparent?  And what is Warren thinking, saying shit like that out loud?  Barfing at school and being sent home for it is only the worst imaginable situation, fodder for other kids to use to keep making fun of him for the rest of the foreseeable future…

 

If he doesn’t get moving, the inevitable is going to happen.  Peter waits till Warren’s moved on to another table, answering questions or something, and he scoops up his backpack and slips out of the room. 

 

He needs to evacuate the building right now.  If he holes up in a bathroom stall, someone will surely walk in and stick their head under the stall door to see what poor soul is in there blowing chunks.  So that leaves only one option. 

 

There’s a lone window in the dead-end hallway of cleaning closets down by the gym.  Peter high-tails it to his escape hatch and prays his plan will work.  He pries open the window’s rusty locks and shoves it open.  Without giving himself too much time to think about it, he slides through the narrow opening and starts scaling down the side of the building.  The stiff academic decathlon jacket makes it a little challenging to bend his elbows and the nausea pressing in his gut sparks a wave of disorienting vertigo, but Peter makes it to the ground before he doubles over and retches all over his shoes. 

 

Well, he failed at getting off school grounds.  But at least he’s out of the building.  Peter heaves again and steps backward to avoid getting more partially digested cereal on his sneakers.  As soon as he surfaces, coughing and sputtering, Peter darts across the parking lot and starts the lonely walk home. 

 

He stops in Walgreens for ginger ale and crackers.  Peter looks longingly at the flu meds behind the counter, but there’s no way he’ll be able to buy any without getting carded, so he just pays for the bland snacks and supposes he’ll make do with the ibuprofen at home. 

 

Actually, medicating is the last thing on his mind when he unlocks the apartment door because the titanic urge to puke is back.  Peter’s knees feel like barely-set jello as he stumbles into the bathroom, tossing aside his backpack, shopping bag, and yellow blazer as he goes. 

 

He drops hard in front of the toilet and retches immediately.  Strings of thick saliva stick in his throat, and the pressure makes his head throb horribly. 

 

Peter’s still bringing up snot and bile long after his system’s purged itself.  In a moment of respite, he lays his cheek against the toilet seat.  The chill of the plastic bites into his overheated skin and feels soothing and painful at the same time. 

 

Suddenly Peter’s phone starts ringing, loudly sounding from the depths of his pocket.  Peter groans.  He pulls the device from the sheath of his jeans and squints down at the screen.  His blood turns cold and his stomach drops when he sees that it’s May calling.

 

He can’t not answer.  “Hey, May,” Peter croaks.

 

“Hey,” May replies, irritation obvious in her voice.  “Care to tell me why school called me to say you were absent from class?”

 

“Shit,” Peter exhales.  His fevered brain isn’t functioning.  He’d known he’d forgotten something in his just-shy-of-a-master plan. 

 

“What’s going on?” May demands.

 

The truth is easiest.  And truest.  “Sorry,” Peter says.  “I just started feeling really sick and I didn’t want to throw up at school, so I just left, and I’m at home, and I’m ok, you don’t have to worry about me…”  It turns into a ramble.  Which really isn’t helping with his case.  Or his headache.

 

“You sound like you’re smoking in an underpass or something,” May says.  “I don’t think you’re being straight with me.”

 

Peter’s head feels like it’s going to explode.  His stomach is crawling into his throat again.  “May, honest, I just, I really…”  He swallows hard, but acid keeps rising.  “I’m gonna puke again.  Sorry.”  He drops the phone and hugs the toilet, practically unhinging his jaw as a trickle of bitter fluid evacuates his system. 

 

By the time he’s done, May’s already hung up.  “Fuck,” Peter mutters.  There’s certainly a punishment coming down the pike for him.  But he can’t worry about it right now, because Peter’s sure that if he moves, he’s going to pass out. 

 

When the apartment door creaks open, Peter’s confused.  He’s sweaty and clammy and sore, and the fumes from the unflushed toilet are turning his stomach all over again.

 

“Hey Pete?” May’s voice says, calmly and quietly. 

 

“Yeah?” Peter tries to respond, but his throat’s so dry and crusted with gunk that hardly more than a grunt comes out.

 

Footsteps trail through the apartment and stop in the doorway in front of the bathroom.  “Oh, yeah.  You’re sick,” May sighs. 

 

“Sorry,” Peter whispers.  It just seems like the right thing to say, seeing as May’s apparently home early from work.  And he thinks he remembers an earlier phone argument.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” May says.  She reaches into a plastic bag hanging from the crook of her elbow and pulls out rattling boxes of Dayquil and Nyquil.  “I brought you the good stuff.  If you think your stomach can handle it.”

 

Peter lets out a breath of gratitude and swipes his sleeve under his dripping nose.  “Thanks, May.  You’re a lifesaver.”


End file.
